Mirrors, Truths, And Tea-Parties

Fourth period was mathematics.

I suck at math—and when I say that I sucked, I mean that I am, without question, one of the worst ponies at the subject in the entire school. I’m so bad at it that I got a failing grade last year. I had to take it all over again this year to make up for that.

I’ve never understood it well. I suppose that might be because of how they teach it. Do you know where the quadratic formula comes from? I sure don’t. It seemed like instead of being taught how these things worked, I was just forced to accept them without question, becoming a living calculator in the process—albeit, a very bad one. How is that, in any way, education?

Luckily, to my surprise, Dinky was in my Algebra class this year. Even more, she apparently was an avid opponent of this method of teaching.

“The square of the length of the hypotenuse of a right triangle is equal to the sum of the squares of the lesser sides.”

“Why?” Dinky asked.

Dinky had integrated herself into a position of ‘quality control,’ making sure that the teacher—it was Time Turner again—didn’t avoid important details and actually taught what he was supposed to. She did her ‘job’ well, so I didn’t complain.

It somewhat surprised me, though, that Dinky seemed far more confident in her physics and math classes than in any other. Like I said before, she was well known for being reticent…yet, what I saw in Classical Mechanics and Algebra completely contradicted that. During those two classes—and those classes alone—she seemed to be one of the most outspoken students in the room.

Regardless of Dinky’s enthusiasm, though, I found myself easily bored. My mind never has liked, and will never like numbers—they hurt my head—so I turned my attention elsewhere: to my aching hoof.

Punching the mirror had been a stupid move on my part. Sure, I was all patched up now—Mom had done a pretty good job at cleaning and bandaging the wound—but I could still feel the throbbing pain in my hoof, and it was hardly forgiving. When it was resting, the pain was only a small discomfort, but, when I tried to use it, I couldn’t run, jump, or even walk without the stabbing feeling interrupting my movement mid-stride, causing me to limp everywhere.

I don’t like limping. It brings me closer to my name than usual. I can see the Foal Free Press title now: “Snails—Closer to a Snail than You May Think!”

Ugh.

I frowned. Last night had been odd—very odd. Sure, I had felt those feelings while staring at my reflection before, but…I had never lashed out like that. I had never yelled at or questioned a mirror like that before. Usually, I’d just look at myself, feel bad, and then move on to writing, or drawing, or reading comics like I often would. This time, though, I had hurt myself, and I had hurt myself badly.

Why?

I had been asking that kind of question a lot recently. Why had Dinky eyed me as she had done at lunch yesterday? Why hadn’t Tornado Bolt made fun of me when she had the chance? Why did she want to spend any time with me at all?

I often refrained from asking ‘why’ questions. They were hardly answered, and, when they were, the answer would often just fly overhead, leaving me far behind, very confused. These new ones, though, had to be asked. Ponies don’t suddenly want to hang out with you, especially if it means that they would have social awkwardness stapled to their names because of it. Ponies don’t suddenly start looking at you weirdly, either. There were reasons for these things, and, for once, I wanted to know them; I needed to know them before I could fully come to trust the two fillies, and stop those feelings of mine.

I decided that I’d ask Tornado about it later.

⁂

History is my best subject—not because I’m good at it, but because of how it’s taught. Often, history teachers just make you remember stuff and recall it later, which is a fairly simple thing to do, even for me. Very rarely do they make you analyze a document or anything like that.

Remember how I mentioned how slow-minded I am? Well…I suck at thinking—analyzing, especially. Remembering things doesn’t need much thinking at all, though, which is probably why I haven’t flunked out of high school yet.

I’m not even all that good at remembering things, either; I’m only somewhat average at it, it seems. It isn’t like I’m passing history classes with flying colors or anything like that—I usually pass them with grades somewhere between a B-minus and a C…but, luckily, that’s a decent enough grade for the school and, more so, for myself.

Oddly enough, my Equestrian History class, fifth period, was also being taught by Time Turner—weird, right? I could see why he’d teach both math and physics, considering there’s a fairly sized connection between the two, but history’s a completely different subject. Also, where did he get the time to teach three different classes?

Then again…his name is Time Turner. His cutie mark is an hourglass. Hmm.

I’ve got nothing. Please, help me.

…

“Snailsquirm!”

I jerked in my seat. “Huh?”

Time Turner was looking at me with pursed lips and an expectantly raised eyebrow. He didn’t look very happy with me.

My ears drooped. What dumb thing had I done, now? “Y-yes, Mister Turner?”

“I said, ‘What is the E.U.P.?’”

“E.U.P. stands for Earth, Unicorn, Pegasi Guard.”

“I’m not asking about what it stands for. I’m asking about what it is.”

“Oh. The E.U.P. Guard of…the E.U.P.…is…is…” I started, lifting my good hoof to scratch away the itching in my mane. “Uh…isn’t it…military? I don’t know.” My eyes darted left and right, drinking in my surroundings. Everypony was looking at me. I looked down at my desk, trying to hide my face from the judging gazes of the teacher and my fellow classmates. “Sorry,” I mumbled.

Needless to say, the itch only intensified.

⁂

As the bell rang, the entire class stood up, myself included, and lined up behind one of the two classroom entrances, slowly funneling out into the hallway.

While I was waiting, I swore that I could hear a couple grumbling stomachs from nearby. That was normal. It was lunchtime, after all.

I smiled.

After slowly dragging myself to the front of the line, Mister Turner stopped me.

“Excuse me, Snailsquirm. I noticed you weren’t paying much attention in class today. What’s up?”

My face went flat. Oh dear. A teacher approaching me on the second day of school was not a good sign.

“I—um…I’m sorry,” I said.

“It’s okay, Snails. You’re not in trouble or anything. I’m just a little concerned. It’s not a coincidence that you weren’t paying much attention in math earlier today, either, I presume?”

I blinked. Wasn't he angry with me?

“N-no, I don’t think so.”

“Is there any particular reason for it, then? I don’t want a repeat of last year.”

Last year was a hard one. The majority of my grades that year were in the D-zone, minus Art and History, in which I had gotten a B and C-plus respectively—and, as I had mentioned, I had failed Algebra, resulting in some makeup work. Mom wasn’t all that happy with me about that.

“Um…Snails?”

I had taken two of Turner’s classes that year, so he was, at least, well acquainted with my habit of almost failing classes. Apparently, that wasn’t a very common thing for teachers to see—a student’s academic mess spanning almost every subject. I felt sorry for him. He shouldn’t have had to put up with that kind of thing.

“Snailsquirm!”

I shook my head out of thought. “Huh? Oh, uh…sorry. What did you say again?” There I went again, prancing through my own ‘la-la land’ as if my life depended on it. Stupid Snailsquirm.

He looked at me inquisitively.

He had seen this behavior before since it was commonly displayed during class time, but he had never seen it outside of that. When he had pulled me aside after periods in the past, I had usually paid much better attention to him. It was the same story for many of my other teachers.

“Why don’t you pay attention in class, Snails?”

I had an urge to say that there wasn’t a reason for it, but I chose not to; instead, I said nothing.

“I mean, you don’t have to say it if you don’t want to; I understand some things are personal. I just don’t want you to plummet as you did last year. I can’t help if I don’t know the problem, though.”

“…”

“Snails…please, let me help you.”

“…I-I don’t know,” I sighed.

⁂

Under the shade of the maple tree, we sat, the calm breeze of autumn slipping between the hairs of our manes, building a sharp contrast to the warmth of the paper cups resting in our hooves; it was a pleasant feeling, especially considering the condition of my own.

Beside Tornado sat a stainless steel kettle, wisps of steam rising from its spout. True to her word, Dinky did bring (mint-flavored) tea, and it was anything but bad.

“Yesterday, I came home from school and Mom wasn’t home. Apparently, she and Time Turner went to some local café, or something along those lines, to catch up on some things they’ve been working on—a G.U.T. or something,” Dinky said. “She rarely lets me use the chalkboard walls”—Tornado Bolt clenched her teeth and shivered at that. I’m not sure why, though. Also, chalkboard walls? What?—“so…well…”—she smirked—“I ended up absolutely covered in chalk from horn to hoof.”

“Did Derpy find out about it?” Tornado asked.

“Actually, yeah!”

“Oh no! What did she do?”

“She came home later that night and screamed because there were hoof prints all over the floor and walls.”

“…Dee, that’s hilarious!” Tornado laughed.

The two turned their heads to look at me, grinning expectantly. I was visibly shaking, my bandaged hoof over my mouth, trying to hold it in.

I fell over, belting out my own noises of amusement at the top of my lungs. The volume of it was actually kind of impressive.

“Now, now, it’s not that funny,” Dinky said.

I didn’t stop. Instead, with breathlessness building up in my stomach, I just flailed.

“Please, Snails, you’re gonna hurt your hoof again!” Tornado added.

Of course, she wasn’t wrong. I slammed my hoof down on the ground and cried, “Agh!” It shook with throbbing pain. “Ow! Ow ow ow ow ow!”

Tornado immediately moved over to me, worry plastered on her face like over-applied makeup—or, like my mother. “Oh, Celestia! Are you okay? Do you need me to get a nurse?”

“N-no, I’m fine. Thanks.”

She sighed. “Phew; that’s good.”

“How did it even get like that?”

I glanced at Dinky. “I punched a mirror.”

Tornado raised an eyebrow at that. “Why?”

I couldn’t’ve told the truth—that would have just raised more questions—but I couldn’t’ve said nothing, either, because that would’ve been suspicious, so I had opted to lie instead. I didn’t like doing that, but it was the only option I had. “…It was an accident.”

Unfortunately, for me, her curiosity only doubled from that. “What happened?”

“…”

“Snails?”

“…A-alright…maybe I…lied. I just don’t wanna talk about it, okay?”

“Oh, okay. We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t wanna.”

I was surprised that she wasn’t angered by that. Getting lied to sucks, especially if a friend is the one doing the lying. She considered me a friend, right?

I noticed Dinky in the corner of my eye.

She was frowning again.

⁂

“Snails, honey, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Mom.”

She frowned.

What was up with all the frowning recently? First, there was Dinky, and now there was Mom, too.

“Today, I got a letter from one of your teachers. He said that you weren’t paying attention, both in and out of class,” she said, firmly. “Also, last night, you punched a mirror.”

“…Yeah?”

“Something’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong, Mom.”

“You wailed.”

“That…was a scream.”

“No, that was certainly a wail, Snails. I know a wail when I hear one.”

I huffed. “Mom…please?”

“Snails, please.”

“…I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Talk about it anyway, Snails.”

“I-I—you can’t make me!”

What was I doing? Why was I yelling at Mom like that? Was that a tear on my face?

Ignoring the pain, I ran.

⁂

Figuring that maybe something sweet would help take my mind off of the pain in my hoof, and the recent encounter with my mother, I decided to stop by Bon-Bon’s Confectionary. Those weren’t the only reasons for going there, though. I knew for a fact, based on previous visits, that Tornado Bolt often assisted Bon-Bon with the shop, whether that involved getting materials from the market, running the cash register, or organizing the merchandise. If I wanted to talk to her alone, it would be a good place to start looking.

The shop wasn’t all that large; it was actually somewhat small—cozy, even. That would make sense, though, considering that it, quite literally, was the owner's home.

I decided on buying a prepackaged bag of black and red licorice. They were my favorites.

Much to my dismay, Tornado was not at the register this time; there was a mint-colored, golden-eyed Unicorn standing in her place, juggling lollipops with her hooves.

Over the years, the mare had earned the title Looney-Lyra because of her numerous consistently odd behaviors. She’d walk into town on two hooves, sit in strange positions, jump up and down repetitively while wearing a really weird, insane expression, and she’d often reminisce about sitting on benches with joy. On top of all of that, she’d casually play around with really bizarre transformation magic as if it was nothing. The only pony who could rival her peculiarity, in any manner, would be Pinkie Pie!

I placed the bag of licorice and the necessary number of bits on the counter. “Hey, Lyra, do you know where Tornado Bolt is? I need to talk to her.”

“Long time no see, Snails!” After setting down the lollipops on the counter, she tallied the coins with her hoof and nodded. “What’s that about Tori, again?” She popped open the cash register and dropped the bits inside. “Oh, right. She’s with Bonnie right now, I think. Something about needing ingredients for some new taffy flavors.” Shrugging, she finished, “They’re probably at the market right now.”

Smiling, my eyes still red, I picked up my newly bought plastic bag of sweets and levitated them into my saddlebag. “Thanks, Lyra.”

“Anytime.”

⁂

The marketplace, as it usually was on a weekday, was active with ponies of all shapes, sizes, and goals. Parents often walked in the dirt streets with their foals, searching for supper and, after school, teenagers moved in conglomerations, browsing the various available products, wondering just what to buy with their allowances.

It was a zoo of shops, focuses ranging anywhere from charms to books to woodworks and more—and, like a zoo, it was organized into categories, one of which being the food district.

The food district, while diverse, was small. Ponyville only had one farm, being the Apple family’s apple orchard, Sweet Apple Acres, so the majority of merchants dealing with foods cooked them, grew them in their own gardens, or foraged for them, which removed the necessity of large kiosks for their wares.

If Tornado and Bon-Bon were looking for ingredients, they’d probably be here of all places. Now, I just had to look for them. Of course, that meant searching through the crowd of other Ponyville citizens to find them, which would be a little difficult.

I started by asking the store owners if they had seen the two lately. For a couple of minutes, it had given me no results, but then I had run into Applejack and she lent me a helping hoof. Eventually, we had found them, and Applejack had returned to her stall to sell more apples.

Gently, I tapped Tornado on the back.

“Hmm?” She looked over her shoulder and blinked. “Oh, hey, Snails!”

“Hi,” I said, rubbing my hooves together awkwardly.

“So…what’s up?”

“I wanted to ask you something.”

“Oh, okay. One sec.” She poked the cream-coated, hot-pink-and-navy-blue-maned confectioner known as Bon-Bon on the shoulder.

“Hey, Ma, why don’t you go on ahead? I’ll catch up with you later. I gotta talk with my friend about something.”

“Hmm?” Bon-Bon nodded. “Oh. Alright, Dear. Have fun!”

“Thanks, Ma.”

With that, we made our way in the opposite direction, towards Sugar Cube Corner.

⁂

We were sitting in a corner of a not-so-crowded Sugar Cube Corner.

We had each ordered milkshakes not so long ago and had been sipping them ever since, looking at each other in silence, without any idea of what to say to the other pony.

Awkwardness seemed to be my spiritual guardian, following me everywhere I went, regardless of who or what I was talking with. Of course, I had to eventually tell it to back off a little and let me take care of myself sometimes, but I usually lacked the confidence to do so. Luckily, Tornado had decided to spare me the trouble and do it herself.

“So…what’d you wanna talk to me about, again?”

“Tornado, why do you talk to me?” I asked.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

That made me pause. Why wouldn’t she? Oh…right, because I botch my entire social life on the first day of school, like tea parties, am plagued by awkwardness wherever I go, make stupid decisions, like not paying attention in class, punching mirrors, running away from Mom, talking, breathing—help me!

I shook my head and breathed. Snails, get yourself back together.

I tried to speak, but all that came out was “I…uh…well, it’s just that…it’s just that…”

Ugh.

I tapped my good hoof on the surface of the table.

Curiosity had been etched onto Tornado’s face. My guess was that she hadn’t worked out that I hardly ever could think straight, but—

“Uh, Snails? Everything’s okay…right?” she asked.

“I…sorry.” I shook my head again. “It’s just that…well…you just suddenly came up to me and was like ‘let’s hang out!’ and stuff, and I’m not sure why you did that. I’m just some random colt.”

She stared at me, for a moment, as if to ask if I was being serious. “What you said in first period took guts. For a colt to say he likes tea parties in front of the entire class—that takes some serious bravery.” She pointed at me. “You aren’t just some random pony, Snails. You’re a pony I respect.”

Well, at least that explained it. I don’t see why it took bravery, though; it was just a slip of the tongue.

“But…that was just a mistake; I didn’t mean to say it.”

Grinning, she proclaimed, “Well, then I’d like to see what you’re like when it isn’t one!”

I looked down at the tabletop and took a sip of my milkshake. “…I didn’t think about it, though. It just…slipped out. It wasn’t brave or anything; it just…happened. I just panicked and said the first thing that came to mind.”

“Look, whether you meant to say it or not, I still want to get to know you. You’re interesting.”

I gave her an incredulous look. “…I’m not interesting. I’m just a colt.”

“A colt who likes tea parties, thinks his drawings are bad, when, even from a glance, I can tell they are not; a colt who obviously has confidence issues, who comes to school the next day having had ‘accidentally’ broken a mirror with his hoof; a colt who had obviously been crying, who searches the market for me, after school, to ask a question he could’ve asked earlier, during lunch break. Snails, you are interesting.”

“U-uh…”

“You didn’t just come here to ask me why I hung out with you, did you, Snails?”

Oh, thank you, Tornado. I had almost forgotten about that, actually.

I nodded. “Yeah. I need to get away from Mom for a bit.”

“Huh? Why’s that?”

“She insisted I answer a question.”

She tilted her head. “…What question?”

“She asked what’s been wrong with me lately—stuff like why I smashed the mirror yesterday.”

“…And?”

“I don’t know! I’m scared and I don’t even know why.” I sighed. “Nothing feels normal anymore…not even my own reflection.”

She raised an eyebrow at that but didn’t question it, much to my relief.

“…I dunno. I just…don’t want to be home right now. Can we just…hang out for a bit?”

Smiling, she nodded. “What do you wanna do?” she asked.

⁂

I had spent the rest of the day at Tornado’s house—which just so happened to be Bon-Bon’s Confectionary.

She had a square-shaped room on the second floor that was, quite literally, the complete opposite of my own. The walls, which were absolutely covered in Wonder Bolts posters, and the ceiling were purple—not an intense purple; a purple that was very easy on the eyes—and the warm flooring was made of cork. Like the walls, the floor was covered, but instead of posters, in candy wrappers and plastic bags, different colored pens, papers inscribed with strange, multicolor symbols, and books about odd Equestrian weather events.

In a corner of the room, next to a window and a small table, sat a comfy bed with a blue-gray cover and white pillows, which was where we sat for the majority of the time because the floor was too hard and would hurt our tailbones.

We talked about many things, including, but not limited to: our parents—(hers were Lyra and Bon-Bon, which somewhat confused me)—our favorite candies—(she liked taffy)—school; the meaning of life—(I said that there wasn’t one and she said that hers was happiness)—and life in general. I wasn’t completely attentive, though; I was too busy staring at a pretty blue dress in her closet that I absolutely wanted to wear sometime.

Looking back, that’s a very weird thought for a colt to have. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me.

Eventually, she noticed that my attention was turned towards her wardrobe more than it was towards anything else, and she giggled and asked, “What’s up?”

I just shook my head, as I often did when coming out of deep thought, and replied, “Oh, nothing.”

Everything went smoothly until I had to go to the bathroom.

Going to the bathroom was a bad idea because it resulted in me encountering another mirror, this one much larger than the one I broke before. I didn’t lash out at it or anything, as I did to the other, yesterday; instead, I was met with a falling feeling in my stomach. I paced around the room anxiously, whimpering, with a small amount of salt dripping from my eyes as it had done earlier. Legs giving way, I fell over onto the circular light green rug that had previously been just underneath my hooves.

“Snails? Everything’s alright in there, right?”

I didn’t respond.

After a minute, Tornado opened the bathroom door to see me pathetically burying my face into the mat. Eyes wide, she immediately went over to hug me. She propped me up off of the floor, pulled me in towards her barrel with her wings, and wrapped me in a hoof, stroking my mane with the other.

“Snails…what’s wrong?” she pleaded. She was concerned for me; I could tell from the tone of her voice.

The most coherent thing that I could say in that moment—which wasn’t very coherent at all—was spoken in short gasps in between whimpers: “I-I…m-mirror…d-drawings…n-no! I-I’m…no-not…s-sto-stop…h-help…Ma-a…p-pl-please…d-dress-es—n-no!”

After a few long minutes of her hugging me and dragging her hoof through my mane, I had calmed enough to the point of sleep.